


Not Close Enough

by Lysandra31



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysandra31/pseuds/Lysandra31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were both this stranded, they were like two black holes,<br/>their gravities pulling against each other in the dense darkness.</p><p>No spoilers for anything after Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Close Enough

TITLE:  Not Close Enough

AUTHOR:  Lysandra

E-MAIL:  Lysandra@mediaone.net or Lysandra31@aol.com

RATING:  NC-17

SPOILERS/TIMELINE: Set in Season Three. Spoilers for "Blessing Way/Paper Clip" and "3."

CLASSIFICATION: Story, Angst, Romance, MSR

DISCLAIMER:  "The X-Files" belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions,

and Twentieth Century Fox.  I own a purple PT Cruiser named Professor Plum.

DISTRIBUTION: Please ask first.

SUMMARY:  When they were both this stranded, they were like two black holes,

their gravities pulling against each other in the dense darkness.

 

 

 

Not Close Enough

by Lysandra

 

Mulder swirled the grape juice in his mouth, treating it like fine wine.  Nobody

drank wine in his house when he was growing up; his father preferred hard liquor

and his mother preferred sober misery.

 

A high school girlfriend had taken him to church once, and he took communion

even though he didn't believe in it, just to get away with an illicit taste

of wine.  He came away with the disappointing taste of grape juice.  She was

a nice girl, though, and the disappointment didn't last, and that rainy

Sunday -- decades past, now -- he'd kissed Mindy Price in her church parking

lot and tasted the bittersweet flavor of red grapes on her tongue.

 

He hadn't seen that girl since eleventh grade but still thought of her when

he tasted grape juice.  The sprinkling of freckles across her nose and

cheeks was cute, but he remembered her voice as too cheerful.  Mindy had

wanted to be an actress, a marine biologist, a veterinarian.  Mulder didn't

know where she'd ended up.  He didn't really care.

 

Not quite sure why he was sitting on his couch alone in the fading light, he

got up and turned on the television, muting the sound.  He'd lost the

remote, a nifty trick considering the starkness of the furnishings in his

apartment.  The damn thing wasn't under the sofa or between its leather

cushions, and it was nowhere near the coffee table or his desk.  It had been

gone for days.  He thought of starting an X-file on it, assigning it a

number and a manila folder and asking Scully to help him solve the mystery.

He might just do it to give her a laugh.

 

She could damn well use a laugh right about now, and so could he.  In the

long month since his father and her sister had been murdered, he and Scully

had been stumbling around in their own separate fogs.  They'd had a few

cases and sleepwalked through those -- the work probably kept them

relatively sane -- but the downtime between cases was interminable for

Mulder, and he suspected it was the same for her.

 

They hadn't talked much, but the absence of conversation was part of their

normal routine; they rarely talked about anything personal unless it related

to the work.  Lately, when they spoke, impatience and hurt and blame

simmered just below the words, and there was a ragged edge to Scully's voice

that Mulder didn't like.

 

He wished he could give her some comfort, but he didn't know how and she

probably wouldn't accept it anyway.  In spite of how much time they'd spent

together in the past two years, sometimes she was a mystery of epic

proportions. 

 

What a damn mess. Scully had to deal with her sister's murder and the knowledge

that if it weren't for the murderer's fuckup, she'd be the dead one. Mulder's father

had died in his arms and Mulder had more or less died too, out in the desert.

He'd seen things: visions, dreams, people; but for all the things he'd found 

during his near-death experience, Mulder was no closer to finding the truth; and

his relationship with Scully, the one thing he had come to count on, had become

distant and cold. 

 

Where the _fuck_ was the remote?  He searched the coffee table for the

fourth time, shoving magazines out of his way.  He peered under the coffee

table.  He flung the pillows off the sofa.  Even as he flipped the couch

cushions to look beneath them, he knew he was overreacting.  He should be

grateful to be alive; instead, every little annoyance took on a warped

inflated significance and drove him crazy.

 

He kicked away a cushion and then everything seemed to happen at once: the

cushion's flight toward the coffee table; the slow deep sound of a knock at

the door; the pull of his wounded shoulder muscle; the cushion bumping the

glass just enough to send it spinning off the table, spraying grape juice

all the way to the desk.

 

Angry at the sofa cushion, Mulder frisbeed it into a corner, where it

wouldn't cause him any more grief.  Fucking grape juice.

 

Whoever was at the door was persistent.  Mulder grabbed his gun as he

approached the entryway, and decided he needed a peephole.  He didn't like

living in a world where he couldn't answer his goddamn door without a

weapon.

 

"Yeah?" he said, and he didn't bother masking the anger in his voice.  He

couldn't think of anyone he wanted to see right now, anyway.

 

There was a short pause.  "Mulder, it's me."

 

Of course.  Scully.  He didn't know why she was here, and he couldn't muster

up the energy to care.  "It's the weekend, Scully.  Don't you have something

better to do than work?"

 

He didn't open the door.

 

"Mulder...."  Her voice sounded odd.  This wasn't the chiding voice, or the

joking voice, or the let's get to work voice.

 

He opened the door.

 

She looked awful.  Well, maybe not awful, but not herself.  Someone else

might not even notice a difference in her, but to him she looked completely

wrong.  Her colors were duller, paler than usual; and there was something

else.  She looked ... dry.  Mulder had always thought of Scully as water,

fluid and moving, even when she was still.  But now, all the life seemed

drained from her.  Her normally ocean blue eyes looked grey and lifeless.

 

"I'm sorry," she said.  She leaned against the door frame as if it was the

only thing holding her up.

 

"Come in," he offered.  She walked past him into the entry, and he shut the

door.  She stood with her back to him, looking tiny and lost in her big coat. 

He wanted to pet her hair but stayed a good five feet away from her. As he

looked around he realized the room was a mess.  Pillows and magazines and

couch cushions everywhere, grape juice flowing toward the window in the crack

of a floorboard.

 

She spoke again in a more even voice.  "Love what you've done with the place, Mulder."

 

He barked out a little laugh.  "I wasn't expecting anyone," he answered, sounding more

bitter than he felt.  He'd switched into Friend of Scully mode when he'd seen her looking so

forlorn, but she couldn't know that. She had no way of knowing he was feeeling horrible too.

She probably just thought he was an asshole. 

 

"What's up?" he asked.

 

She turned around to face him.  Her eyes lost their focus and she seemed to

retreat back inside herself.  She didn't answer his question.

 

Scully was starting to scare him.

 

He took a step toward her.  He felt as if he should ask permission.

 

Her posture stiffened.  Okay, he thought, I'll take What's Wrong With Scully

for a hundred.  He walked past her to pick up the empty glass from the floor,

and grabbed a couple of tissues from the desk to sop up the grape juice.  It

wasn't enough, but it was something.  She stood statue-still, gazing out the

window, while he replaced the sofa cushion and picked up the magazines that

had been strewn across the floor.  He turned to see what she was looking at,

but there was nothing there.  She was just looking to look, he supposed.

 

She was making him nervous.  "Scully, sit down," he said.

 

She didn't respond for a moment, then walked over and sat on the couch as if

she'd been waiting for the go-ahead to do so.  "I don't know why I'm here,"

she said.  "I just couldn't be at home anymore."

 

Mulder knew the feeling.  Maybe they should trade apartments, he thought.

But then he'd be in her place thinking of her problems, and she'd be here

worrying about his.  Somewhere along the line their problems had become

shared and there seemed no end to any of them, no matter where either of

them turned.

 

God, they were screwed up.  There were times when he felt more alone when

she was with him.  When they were both this stranded, they were like two

black holes, their gravities playing tug-of-war in the dense darkness.

 

He looked over at Scully and she looked back at him, and he felt warmed when

she smiled a small secret smile.  "Mulder, you've got--"  She didn't say

anything more, but reached for his face, swiping her thumb across his chin.

She'd never touched him like this before; it was both maternal and sexy, and

in his current mood it made him resent her on both counts.

 

"Fluff," she explained, showing him a bit of lint she'd freed.  She wiped

her hand on her jeans and then looked at the pad of her thumb as if it

contained the secrets of the universe.

 

"Is that why you came?" he asked.  "Fluff patrol?"  He waited, hoping she'd

smile again.

 

She didn't.  She sighed, a sad frustrated sound, and Mulder became her echo.

 

He wanted everything to be different.  He wanted his father and Melissa to

be alive and well.  He wanted to see Samantha.  He wanted to never have to

wonder whether aliens were here on Earth; he wanted proof and he wanted it

now.  He wanted not to feel like Scully had wandered away and would never

come back.

 

He wanted something that he hadn't experienced in over twenty years: a

carefree day.

 

He wanted control.

 

He glanced back at Scully.  Eyes closed, fingers steepled above the bridge

of her nose, body rocking.  Toward him, away from him.

 

Toward, away. 

 

Toward. 

 

Away.

 

It wasn't like her.  This self-comforting behavior worried him.  He was the

one who couldn't sit still most of the time, always fiddling with pens or

bouncing a basketball or going for a run.  Scully wasn't like that; Scully

was rigid in a good way.  Strong.  Tonight, though, she was floundering.

Mulder didn't know what to do, but he suspected that some sort of action was

called for.

 

She surprised him by speaking.  "You need a shave, Mulder."  Her voice

echoed in the cavern of her hands.

 

He didn't usually shave on the weekend unless he was working, but if Scully

wanted him to shave, he'd shave.  She seemed to need something from him, and

he wasn't sure what it was yet, but he was willing to do this if it would

help her out.  He got up and headed for the bathroom, though he couldn't

think why it would help Scully.  Why should she care if he shaved or not?

 

"Mulder, I was kidding," he heard her say from the living room.  "I didn't

mean for you to..."

 

He turned the tap on high so he couldn't hear the rest of her words.  High

and hot.  He splashed water across his face and squirted shaving cream in

his hand, and left the water running as he spread the white foam on his

face.  He needed to buy razor blades, he remembered.  The one he had was

shot.  But he used it anyway, and his hand was unsteady, and he wasn't

surprised when he felt the blade slice into his neck, and he couldn't stop from

yelling "mother _fucker_!" into the echoing tiles.  He dropped the razor into the

sink and hopped on one foot for a moment, gritting his teeth.

 

"Jesus," she said, and she was right there next to him though he hadn't

heard her come in.  "You'll need a transfusion in a minute."

 

Ha fucking ha, Scully.  "I'll live," he said.

 

Scully turned the faucet down, running her hand under it as she adjusted the

temperature to her liking.  "Sit down," she ordered, as she retrieved the

razor from the sink.  He lowered the lid of the toilet and did as she'd

asked.  How she ended up being the one in charge here was a mystery.

 

"I need to buy blades," he explained.  She looked at his razor a moment then

carefully removed the blade, wrapped it in some toilet paper, and threw it

in the wastebasket.

 

"Don't move," she said, and she left for a minute.  He sat still, wondering

why he was letting her order him around.

 

She returned with a disposable shaver and a smug smile.

 

"What are you, a girl scout?" he asked.

 

"I'm a woman who travels too much."  She only sounded slightly exasperated.

"This place looks like O.J.'s been here," she said, looking at drops of

blood on the floor.  He didn't laugh at her joke, and was surprised she'd

even made it, considering all the blood they'd seen lately.  She unspooled a

bit of toilet paper and passed it under the faucet, then got down on her

knees to wipe the drops of blood from the floor.  As he sneaked a peek at

her ass, he could see her underwear peeking out from beneath the waistband

of her jeans.  Her panties were the same color as his blood.

 

Scully was too close to him and he didn't like it.  It wasn't her way.  It

wasn't their way.  But he didn't stop her from wiping off his face with a

washcloth.  He didn't flinch when she moved even nearer, standing between

his legs so her breasts were at his eye level.  "Let me see," she said,

examining his chin and neck.  "You're still bleeding," she whispered, and

she pressed her fingers into his skin, her naked fingers, probably taking

his pulse as she applied light pressure.  His heart was racing, due more to

her proximity than the adrenaline from cutting himself.  He closed his eyes

because she was too close to focus on.

 

She started over with the shaving cream, spreading it on his face with her

fingertips and avoiding the area he'd cut.  When he opened his eyes, she was

looking at him as if she were a sculptress studying her clay, looking for

just the right spot to chip, the right place to carve.  "Tell me if I nick

you," she prompted, and he answered with a noncommittal grunt.

 

She started to shave him, tipping his head to her liking as she swiped the

razor over his skin in smooth, short strokes, running it under the faucet

every so often.  He hated disposable razors but didn't tell her that.  He

felt the heat of her between his knees and was suddenly hit with it, the

memory of this act, but that had been the wrong woman, the wrong everything.

Scully was probably the right woman, and this was probably the wrong time.

He knew he shouldn't voice his thoughts, but he did.  "The last time a woman

shaved me like this, I got laid."  He trapped her thighs with his legs.

 

She didn't even seem fazed.  "Well, that wasn't why I came over," she said,

and he loosened his hold on her.  "I came because things--"  She faltered,

and held the razor away from him a moment before returning to her task.

"Things aren't right between us," she finally said.  She was looking at his

chin as she spoke.

 

"They're getting there," he answered, and he tightened his knees to her

again.

 

"Mulder, I have a sharp implement in my hands," she warned.  "I'm serious.

Everything's been so--" she paused then heaved a big sigh, not looking at

his eyes.  "We can't be this way."

 

Which way, he wondered.  The way we were ten minutes ago, or the way we are

now?

 

"Which way can we be?" he asked, and he grabbed the razor from her hand and

flung it away.  She looked like she was trying not to show fear.  She looked

young.

 

He continued with his assault.  "Can we be _this_ way?"  He moved forward on

the toilet seat until their lower bodies met, wrapping his hands around her ass. 

"Is this what'll make you feel better?"  He held her tight against him, felt her heat

and anger seeping into him.

 

She wrenched out of his grip and he let her.  But she didn't bolt as he expected. 

She picked up the razor, passing it under the still-running faucet before returning

to him.  She swiped her hand over his chin for the umpteenth time, smoothing the

shaving cream that remained on his face. Silent tears brimmed in her eyes and she

blinked them down her face, and she fucking lifted the cheap blue razor to him again. 

He hoped she could see what she was doing.  Her hand was as calm as before, though,

so he didn't stop her. If she cut him, so be it.

 

"You've got shaving cream in your hair," he told her, and he lifted the ends

of her hair off her shoulder to show her.

 

She didn't even look.  "That's okay," she said, her voice sounding a little

like it had outside his door earlier.  And still she cried, private tears

that she wouldn't share with him but wouldn't hide.  She tilted his head up

and he couldn't see her any more as she shaved under his chin.

 

"I think I'm done," she announced as she ran her fingers over his face, checking for

rough patches.  She braced herself on his shoulder for a moment.  She was so

watery again, so Scully, and even though she rarely cried in front of him it seemed

normal because her eyes were blue and her skin was flushed and she was all her

colors again, and he wanted her so badly he could taste it.  He'd wanted her before,

for moments or hours or days at a time, but actually having her hadn't ever been a

real possibility.

 

Until now.

 

"Maybe you're done," he growled, "but I'm not."  And he stood up and she was

so small and he pushed her against the wall and painted her with soft kisses

to her face, belying his urgent need to erase bad memories with new sweet ones. 

He expected a knee to the groin any second, but she stood with her hands at

her sides, palmed against the wall, as she passively allowed him to swipe tears

from her face like raindrops. It wasn't enough.

 

Stop crying, he thought.  Don't act this way.  Act as if you want me; act as

if you love me; act as if you need me like air.  He held a whole conversation 

in his head.  _You know you need me, Scully, or you wouldn't have come._

_Yes, Mulder_ , she said in his mind.  _I need you like air_.

 

She didn't push him away.  She let him taste her salt and let him feel her warmth

against him; and he tried not to maul her, tried not to thrust at her, tried not to love her.

 

He hadn't kissed her lips yet, and from the glazed look in her eyes he couldn't tell

if she wanted him to, but her mouth hung open like an invitation and he wanted

her so badly ... Fuck, he couldn't do this if she didn't want it. "Scully," he said, and he 

couldn't gather his thoughts but spoke them anyway. "Scully, you have to leave or

I'm gonna kiss you."

 

She blinked and looked at him with a pursed brow.  "You ... you've already

kissed me," she said.  Her voice was languorous but her eyes were clear.

 

"No I haven't," he said, shifting a lock of her hair back with his fingers.  So soft.

He took a deep breath.  "I've kissed your face, your skin."  He ran a fingertip

over her lips.  "I haven't kissed _you_."

 

She blinked another tear out and he hoped it was the final one.  "I don't

know why I came," she said.

 

He stared at her, unable to speak but hoping she heard him anyway.  _You do_

_know, Scully.  You came because it's better for us to be together than_

_separate._

 

"I don't want ... to feel like this," she said, her voice gritty.  Another

teardrop.  "I've been not feeling anything at all, and it seems like forever

since I have."  She raised wet lashes to meet his gaze with her own.  "I

wanted to fight with you."

 

He hadn't taken his hands off her but she didn't seem to notice one way or

the other.  He must have had a questioning look on his face, because she

answered his unasked 'why.'

 

"It makes me feel like things are normal," she said.

 

He smiled at her and leaned down to look at her eyes.  "You wanna go a few

rounds, Scully?"

 

She didn't smile.  "I feel like I already have."  She closed her eyes, took

a deep breath and blew it out as she tilted her head from side to side,

working the muscles in her neck.

 

Mulder soothed her with his hands, kneading her shoulders and neck.  "You

need sleep," he told her.  "Come lie down."

 

"Okay."  She let him lead her to his bed, and didn't protest when he slipped

off her shoes.  She merely turned away from him and curled herself up into a

ball on top of the covers, lying on her side with her knees tucked against her chest.

 

He didn't want to let her get away with it; she was retreating back into

herself and he wanted her here, with him.  If she wanted a fight, he'd give

her one.  He crawled up behind her and wrapped himself around her.  She was

warm.  He thought that maybe she was running a fever.

 

"Let me go," she said, but it seemed like a token protest.

 

"No." 

 

She turned her head toward him, twisting at an awkward angle, and

narrowed her eyes.

 

"You want to fight, Scully?  We can fight about this if you want.  Or you

can get some sleep."

 

"I can't sleep with you this close," she answered, turning away from him

again.  "It's too much."

 

"It's not enough," he said.  He didn't know if she'd heard him.

 

He'd fight, if that's what it took.  But what he really wanted was to hear

her breath become slow and even, to know she was happy to be close to

him,and to watch her while she slept.  He tightened his hold on her, shifted to

get as much body contact as possible.  She felt perfect against him; he felt

all was right with the world for this moment.

 

It was over in a flash.  "It's too much," she reiterated. She wrenched her body

out of his arms, propelling herself off the bed and assuming a defensive pose,

her arms crossed in front of her chest as she faced away from him. "I can't,

I just -- I can't."

 

Mulder lost his patience.  "What the hell is wrong with you, Scully?"  He

didn't want to fight, he'd changed his mind, but he'd already started.  "You

want to feel normal?  You want to feel something?"  He rose and stood behind

her, wanting to touch her again.  He kept his distance but didn't stop talking to

her.  "Scully?  You wanna tell me why you're really here? Because I'm not up to

profiling you at the moment."

 

"You'd do that, wouldn't you?" she asked, still facing the window.  "You'd

work up a profile on me--"

 

He interrupted her.  "I wouldn't."  He took a step closer until he could

feel steam rising off of her.  "But I don't know what it is you want from

me. I don't know what you need."

 

"That makes two of us," she said.  She finally turned to face him, and her

cheeks were still tear-streaked.  Now that he'd had a taste of her salt, he

wanted to kiss the tears away.  He hadn't known how addictive touching her

would be.  "I just--" she wiped a teardrop away with her index finger, and he

had to strain to hear her mumbled words.  "I wanted to feel real again."

 

Mulder couldn't help it.  He grabbed her and forced her into a hug.

"Scully," he whispered, "you're the _only_ thing that's real."  He kissed

the top of her head and waited for her to lean into him, or to wrap her arms

around him, or to say something else.

 

It didn't happen.  She remained passive in his embrace.

 

Did she _want_ to stay lost, remain separate?  His anger was finding him again,

fermenting deep in his stomach.  He had to stop touching Scully if he was going

to remain sane, and he let go of her and propelled himself back and away from

her, trying to escape her gravity.

 

He hadn't realized he'd been holding her up, she was so fucking light, and he

saw shock on her face as she fell backward, and again he felt as if the world

tipped into slow motion.  He couldn't stop her from falling, and he couldn't

take it back, and he couldn't speak.  Down she went, down, down, and her arm

went behind her and hit the floor first, breaking her fall and probably her wrist. 

He'd added injury to insult, he thought.

 

He rushed the few feet toward her and shouldn't have been surprised when she

actually used her injured left hand to push herself backward, away from him.

She cried out in pain, followed by a whimpering intake of short breaths as

she shut her eyes tight.

 

He hadn't meant to hurt her, but he still felt like a bully.  She must have

known it was an accident, though, because she let him help her up, and he was

careful of her left hand and arm.  "Let me see," he said.  "Do you think it's broken? 

How bad is the pain?"

 

She remained silent as he inspected her wrist, manipulating it with care.

It was already red, and possibly swelling.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

 

"I'm fine."  She slipped her hand from his grasp.  "I have to go."  She

looked at her fingers as she extended them.

 

Mulder winced along with her.  "The only place you're going is the ER, and

I'm driving you," he said.

 

"Mulder, no."  She sounded pitiful; she was begging.  "It think it’s sprained,

and I'm not spending the night in the ER.  If it's broken it'll be clear enough

in the morning and I'll go then."

 

Doctors _do_ make the worst patients.  "You're staying here, then," he ordered.  

"I'll get you some ice and some aspirin.  Go sit down and keep it elevated

above your heart."

 

She rolled her eyes.  "Mulder, you think I don't know what to do for a

sprained wrist?  I'm a fucking doctor."

 

"I'm a fucking psychologist, but that doesn't mean I have a clue as to why

people do the things they do," he responded, and walked out of the room

before he said any more.  Once in the kitchen, he put some ice in a Ziploc

bag and wrapped it in a dishtowel.

 

Upon his return to the bedroom, he found a tightlipped Scully sitting on the

edge of his bed, propping her left wrist up with her right hand.

 

"Here," he said as he sat on the bed next to her.  He held the ice to her wrist. 

"This should help."  She didn't look at him, but she nodded.  Anger warred

with lust in his mind, and he didn't know whether he'd rather slap her or fuck her. 

He did neither.  He just held the ice to her wrist, and watched as she clenched

her jaw tight.  He didn't know if she was too angry to speak, or in too much pain,

but he was almost glad for her silence.  He couldn't trust himself to react well to

whatever she might say.

 

He scooted closer as he spoke, and raised up her left hand, holding it straight up

as he did another delicate exam.

 

She let him, but her face changed, went blank.  Not from pain, but from something

else.  Her eyes blinked a few times and she looked at him, finally.

 

"You okay?" he asked.  She looked a bit stunned.  Maybe she was in shock. "Do you

want to lie down?"  He realized that sounded like a come-on, but couldn't think of

anything to add that wouldn't make it worse.

 

"No ... Mulder, I'm fine, really."  She wiggled her fingers a little.

 

She looked at the floor for a moment, then she looked up at him with once again

watery eyes, her damn ocean eyes that crashed over his shore daily. "I felt like myself ...

until Melissa was murdered," she said.  Her voice was low and angry.  "It's different than

my father dying.  Melissa should still be here, and if I hadn't left, it would've been me

that was in my apartment and I could have defended myself, but she ... she..."

 

She was crying into his shoulder, silent tears that he felt rather than saw. He knew this

guilt, knew it too well, and he wanted to take them both away from it, for a week, a day,

an hour.  He wanted to kiss her and touch her and fuck her and make her forget everything

else but him.  And just for a little while, he wanted to forget everything but Scully.  He was

already halfway there, feeling her warmth against his chest, her hand still grasped in one of his. 

He wanted her over and under and around him until she was all he knew.

 

He didn't ask permission.  He scooped her up and put her on the bed.  Again

she formed herself into a little embryonic ball, and again he wrapped himself around her. 

"Don't, Scully," he begged in a whisper.  "Don't go to that place.  Stay here with me."  It was

as much as he'd ever said to her.

 

She let out a strangled laugh.  "I told you, I can't sleep with you all over me like this."

 

"Try," he said.

 

"No."

 

He didn't know what she meant.  He didn't know if she still wanted to leave, or if she was

too wired to sleep, or if she just wanted him to keep his distance, which wasn't an option.

 

"I'm not letting you go," he whispered in her ear.  She drew in a harsh breath, and he knew

he had her.  When a woman shivered like that it was all

over.

 

He lapped and tugged at her earlobe, reminding himself not to rush.  She didn't pull away

so he was doing well.  Her participation was mandatory, of course, but for now he'd

settle for her acceptance.  She tasted so good he'd be content to nibble at her skin until

she was ready for more.

 

She let loose a tiny sigh that let him know he was on the right track, and he made his

move, edging ever closer to her mouth with his.  He ran his thumb across her lips and

he couldn't wait any longer so he turned her head a little and put his mouth on hers. 

It wasn't really a kiss, just a togetherness of their lips, open-mouthed and humid.  

He stayed there, waiting, and stroked her wet face with his fingers, petting her until Scully

purred a contented sound he'd never heard from her before.

 

He wanted to hear it again.

 

He kissed her now, _slow, slow_ , moving his lips over hers like a dream, until

finally she clutched at his neck, pulling him closer for more.

 

Thank God. 

 

He'd practically forgotten how to kiss a woman, but it was fast coming back

to him, and he and Scully knew exactly how to do this.  He ignored the pain

in his shoulder as he savored her lips, her tongue; he knew this chance might

not come again, and he wanted to remember how she tasted, how she hummed

into his mouth, and the way she let him nudge her until she was lying flat on her

back next to him.

 

Always practical, Scully had flung her left hand over her head to keep it safe from

harm.  He wished he had both her hands on him, but he'd make do with the one

which was burrowing into his hair, sending tiny red sparks down his spine. He wasn't

sure what had changed her mind and he didn't care. She was on his bed, her head 

was on his pillow, her tongue was in his mouth, and he wasn't about to argue with any of it.

 

Everything about her was so fucking soft: her skin, her hair, her lips. Sometimes she

looked like she was made of metal, unbreakable; but up close she was liquid and warm

and malleable. And his.

 

She was definitely participating now, molding her lips to his, sweeping her tongue into

his mouth like the tide.

 

All they'd done was kiss, but he could already cut glass with his cock. Taking it slow

might kill him, but he pulled away for a second to look at her face, and Jesus, she

was gorgeous.  Tear-streaked makeup and mussed hair and swollen lips and

gorgeous.  He could wait, he told himself.  He'd wait until he'd made her forget.

 

Her face and chest were flushed, infused with heat.  He licked at it and sure enough,

she was hot to the touch.  It was sexy as hell, and when she leaned into his touch he

forgot about going slow.  He put his mouth on her breast, right through her top, and

already it wasn't enough.  He wanted her naked and soon, and he shoved her shirt up

until it was gathered under her armpits, and he unhooked her bra and moved it aside

and Jesus she had a pretty body under those clothes and he put his mouth on her breast

again, so much better like this, her hot skin against his teeth and tongue. 

 

"Wait," she said, and she pushed him up and pulled her top off over her

head, and managed to slip all the way out of her bra without hurting her

wrist, and before he knew it her nipple was in his mouth and her good hand

was under his shirt, stroking his back and not quite hurting him with her

fingernails.

 

Her stomach muscles tensed when he touched her there. He did it again, palming her

belly and splaying his hand wide across her skin.  So soft.  Her muscles fluttered beneath

his fingers and it gave him a little thrill.  She wanted this as much as he did, and they both

knew it.  He'd make her forget, and he'd make himself forget, and it would just be the

two of them until they had to remember again.

 

She urged his face back up to hers and he was glad.  She hummed into his

mouth and he loved knowing that she hummed when she was turned on, and that her

nipples were a few shades lighter than her lips, now that he'd kissed off all her lipstick. 

He wanted to know all her little quirks, all her hot spots, and he doubted he'd be able to

find them all tonight.  But he'd always remember that little hum in the back of her throat. 

She sounded happy, and that meant she was forgetting.

 

He was happy himself; his hands were on her breasts, perfect handfuls.  His shoulder 

hurt, but not enough to pay any heed to it.  He didn't know when he'd moved over

her so fully, but he was straddling her now, and her fingers feathered up his side,

tickling his ribs.  He tickled hers too, and she released a full throaty laugh as she bucked

up beneath him. Jesus.

 

Pushing her hair away from her face, he leaned down to speak into her ear.

"Scully, if I'm not inside you soon I'm gonna die."

 

"Yeah," she said.  She was panting. She reached for the top button of his

jeans, fumbling because she was just using the one hand.

 

"Sorry about your wrist," he said, moving to unbutton his fly.

 

She smiled.  "It's not that bad."  She looked at the ceiling for a moment.

"Do you have any condoms, Mulder?"

 

"Yeah."  He rolled off her and sat at the edge of the bed, taking off his

jeans and boxers.  There were condoms in the bedside table and he grabbed

one.  He didn't like this break in the action, but had to laugh when he

looked back at her and saw her struggling with her pants.  He held up the

condom to show her, and replaced the hand at her waistband with his own. 

"I'll do it, Scully.  Just lie back."

 

"And think of England?" she replied. "I don't think so."  But she leaned

back on her elbows, lifted her hips and let him slide her jeans down her

legs, and he could _smell_ her as he did.  Fuck, she smelled good, and he

wasted no time peeling down her panties so he could get his mouth on her.

 

He went straight for the kill and she cried out in surprise as her pelvis

shot up.  " _Mulder!_   A little warning -- _ohhhh, shit_ \-- there, right _there_ \--"

She became nonverbal at that point and he was well pleased with himself.

She was already wet, and tasted dark and smoky.  She wasn't sweet, like

grape juice.  Scully was a Merlot, rich and full-bodied and earthy.  He

worked her with tongue and teeth and lips, and had to hold onto her hips

when he gave more than a passing notice to her clit.  He stuck with it, tonguing

the alphabet inside her and using his fingers outside, and her moans turned to

a high-pitched panting for a little while before she tensed up with a groaning

sigh, pushing his head away from her.

 

And he was only up to 'S.'

 

Mulder congratulated himself and crawled up her body, licking sweat from her

sweet spots, which were numerous.  Her navel, the side of her ribs, under

her breasts, the hollow of her neck.

 

"God," she croaked.  She cleared her throat and kissed his shoulder, just

above his new scar, careful not to touch it.  "If there's a heaven, you're

going -- and I've already been there."

 

"I don't think they'd have me," he murmured into her neck.

 

"If they knew you could do _that_ , they would."

 

He laughed.  She was stroking his hair and her other hand was on his back,

when he realized she was using both.  He lifted his head to tell her not to

use her injured wrist.  "Your hand..."

 

"Mulder, it's fine.  If it hurts you'll be the first to know."

 

He was too happy to disagree.  "You're delicious, Scully."

 

She shifted beneath him, scissoring her legs with his.  "I'm sure that's an

overstatement," she said, "but thank you."  Her thigh rubbed against his

cock and the friction was nearly enough to make him come.

 

He lifted off her for a second.  "Too much," was all he could say.

 

"It's not enough," she parried.  She shifted beneath him until she'd wrapped

her hand around him, giving his cock a once-over.  "Just a second," she said,

and he looked down between them and was gifted with the sight of Scully

slathering her hand with her own juices to get some lubrication.

 

When she touched him again he got a glimpse of that heaven she was talking

about.  He heard himself groan and was glad he wasn't verbalizing his inner

monologue of "slow, slow, don't come in her hand, slow down."

 

"Turn over," she instructed, and nudged him until he was flat on his back

and, he knew, virtually helpless.  If the fire alarm went off now, he'd burn

to a crisp with Scully's hand wrapped around his dick rather than move a

muscle from this bed.

 

To his amazement, Scully was giving him a better hand job than he'd been

giving himself all these years.  And then he felt her hair brush against his

stomach ... oh _fuck_ , Scully was about to go down on him, and then she was

there, and he looked down at her, and she was looking straight at him,

smiling like Mona Fucking Lisa until she wrapped her lips around his dick.

 

Don't come in her mouth, he reminded himself.  He didn't know if he could

stop himself, though, because she was swirling her tongue around the head of

his cock while she kept her hand moving at the base.  She had amazing

timing; she must have instinctively caught the rhythm he liked, or else she

was some insane blow job genius and he'd never had a clue.  Oh _fuck_ , what

she was doing to him?  She'd shifted position and was rubbing the tip of his

cock against the roof of her mouth, grazing the underside with her teeth.

It wasn't painful; she knew the right amount of pressure, she knew everything

about him, oh God, she knew him, and he didn't want to come in her mouth but

he'd have no choice in about ten seconds, so he grabbed her hair.  She batted his

hand away, so he grabbed her again and shoved her face away from him as he

scrambled backward into a sitting position against the pillows.

 

"Fuck," he gasped, and squeezed his cock at the base, not caring if she saw.

"You're better at that than I expected," he said.  That sounded like an insult when

it was meant as a compliment, but it was already too late.

 

She laughed.  "You're delicious, too."  She crawled up his body, sitting up and

settling her ass on his thighs until she looked comfortable.  "Here, let me," she

said, and she pried his hand off his cock and slowly replaced it with her own,

just holding it.  She reached for the condom and ripped the foil with her teeth

and he had to close his eyes a second.  He opened them just as she unrolled the

condom onto him, inch by inch.  Thank God for Trojan; maybe he'd last longer

inside her this way.

 

Scully lifted her ass off his legs and as she loomed over his cock he was

reminded of a docking procedure on the space shuttle, something he'd seen on

the Learning Channel.  The wait was killing him.  Time to lock and load. "Come _on_ ,"

he said.

 

"Patience," she groaned as she lowered herself onto him, "is a virtue."

 

More, Scully, he thought.  Faster.  She was going slow and being romantic,

and he just wanted to fuck her hard.  He shoved her hips down and his cock

up into her, all the way.  _Ahhhhh_ , that was better.

 

" _God_ ," she said, and squeezed her eyes shut.

 

Oh, now he got it.  Nice, Mulder; be an asshole and don't worry about her.

"You okay?" he asked as he leaned up to kiss her.

 

"Yeah," she said into his mouth.  "Gimme one second."  She wrapped her arms

around his neck and hugged him tight for a moment.  "It feels amazing,

Mulder, just--"  She blew out a steady stream of air.

 

 _Okay_ , he thought.  _I can wait.  I'll wait for her and it'll be worth it._ He

sat still, not daring to move in case he couldn't stop once he'd started. To keep

himself occupied he bowed Scully over his arm and latched onto a breast, and she

leaned all the way back until her hair brushed his shins, and the shift in position

nearly killed him with pleasure; she grunted her approval like an animal, and then

she started talking, and oh God, it was good.

 

"Mulder ... you can move now, God, Mul-- _yesyesyes_ , that feels good, right

there ... I'm so glad I came over..."

 

He'd heard permission to move, he knew he had, so he lifted her a little

and thrust back in, and shit, she was wrapped around his cock like a boa

constrictor, she was so tight.  It felt so intense, the most intense pleasure

he could imagine, and he knew he wouldn't last long, condom or no.

 

"How you doing?" he gasped. "Are you close?"

 

"Almost," she said.  "Don't let me fall," and he didn't know what she was

talking about until she brought her good hand toward her crotch so he was

the only thing holding her up.  _Ah, what a partner_ , he thought as he watched

her finger her clit in a lightning-fast motion.  He never would have been so

rough with it.  After a minute he barely had to do any of the work; she was

rocking on him hard, and rubbing herself and him as she moved, and the

friction was incredible.

 

"Scully," he heard over and over.  He couldn't control anything anymore and

he came, and he felt such relief as his orgasm hit, such sweet relief.  He

relaxed to find her still writhing on him.  Fuck, she wasn't there yet, but

his cock was too sensitive for any more.  He slipped out of her and threw

her on her back and shoved two fingers inside her, using his thumb on her

clit, hard like he'd seen her doing.  "Come _on_ , Scully...."  He brushed her

wet hair off her face.  "Hey, stay here," he demanded, and she opened her

eyes.

 

That was it for him, seeing her eyes, and he couldn't believe the shit he

heard coming out of his mouth, even if it was the truth.  "Love you," he

said.  "Scully, _I love you_."

 

That was it for her, too.  "Fuck," she said, and then she screamed something

that could have been Portuguese for all he knew, because she was coming

around his hand and her back arched like a porn star's before she went limp

beneath him.

 

"No," she said, "Stop ... Mulder, please, no more."  She nudged his hand out

from between her legs, and he finally realized she was too sensitive to be

touched there.  "I think I can sleep now," she said, breathless.

 

He removed the condom and tied it off before throwing it in the wastebasket.

He looked at Scully, beautiful and spent, sprawled shamelessly naked on his

bed.  He wished he had a camera, but it wouldn't capture the whole picture

anyway.

 

He rose on rubbery legs and took a piss before going into the kitchen to

find that he was out of bottled water; he filled a glass of iced tap water

and headed back to the bedroom.  When she wasn't in bed he thought for a

moment he'd dreamt the whole thing, but she was only in the bathroom.  He

listened to her splashing water on her face and brushing her teeth, and when

he heard the toilet seat hit the commode he wished he'd thought to lower it for her.

 

He fixed up the bed a little, smoothing the bottom sheet and replacing the

top sheet and blanket.  He didn't remember putting them on the floor in the

first place, but there they were.

 

His head buzzed as he replayed events only minutes old.  He couldn't get

over the feel of her hair between his fingers.

 

Scully cleared her throat and he turned to see a beautiful woman looking

quite shy.  She was still nude, but had crossed her arms over her breasts,

and she was biting at her bottom lip like a schoolgirl.  Amazing.

 

"You're kidding, right?" he asked.

 

That snapped her out of her shyness, at least a bit.  "Look, Mulder, I don't

want to assume anything here..."  She waved her hand in the air a moment, as

if she was looking for the right words.

 

"There's nothing to assume," he told her.  "Come here."

 

Wonder of wonders, she did, walking right into his arms.

 

He was having a hard time reconciling the Scully of a half hour ago to the

Scully who was letting him run his hands over her ass, but he wasn't about to

complain.

 

"I got you some water," he said.  He reached over to the bedside table and

lifted the glass to her face.

 

She voiced her thanks before downing half the glass.  "Echhhh, Mulder, is

that tap water?  From _your_ tap?"

 

"Sorry," he mumbled.  "It's all I've got."

 

She looked at the glass carefully, inspecting it before putting it down.

 

"It's safe, I swear," he assured her.

 

"Suuure," she said, and tugged at his hand as she backed up and sat down.

"Come to bed."  So fucking bossy.

 

"Get under the covers," he said, and she lifted up so he could grab the sheet

and blanket from under her.  She looked a bit stiff as she climbed beneath them,

but gave a little contented sigh when he laid the covers over her. 

 

He got in bed and had the absurd thought that he wanted to cuddle with Scully. 

This was surreal.  He hated cuddling.  But the idea of sleeping with Scully's body

against his, all night long, made him think mushy thoughts about minivans and

 golden retrievers.  It dawned on him that if she wanted him after tonight, he

was pretty much done for as a single man.

 

Fuck it, he thought.  He scooted up behind her and molded himself to her back.

He loved the smell of her, all sweat and sex.

 

"Mmmm," she said.  "Warm."

 

"Good night," he whispered in her ear.  Yeah, they'd both sleep well tonight.

 

"Mulder?"  She turned within his arms to face him.

 

He couldn't stop himself from touching her hair.  "What?"

 

"I want to tell you something."  She sounded serious, maybe a little scared.

 

"So tell me."

 

"That helped.  I mean, I feel like myself.  I just..."  She blinked back a

tear.  "Thank you."

 

Jesus.  He nearly cried himself.  He'd have to fuck her more often.  Like every night.

 

"I feel better, too," he admitted.  "How's your wrist?  Do you want me to wrap it or

anything?"

 

"Mulder, it's fine.  Besides, I would cut my entire left arm off to have

orgasms like that again."  Her smile was brief but wicked.

 

"I think I'd like you to have the use of it, actually," he said with a straight face.

 

Scully took a deep breath and sighed it out, closing her eyes.  "This doesn't really solve

anything," she whispered.

 

"Nope."  It didn't; she was right.  But he didn't care.  He felt amazing. "But I feel better,

Scully.  I feel stronger.  I can keep going."

 

"So can I," she agreed.

 

"Can you sleep with me this close?" he asked.

 

She smiled.  "It's not close enough."

 

 

\-- The End --

 

 

Feedback would be grand.

Lysandra@socal.rr.com or [Lysandra31@aol.com](mailto:Lysandra31@aol.com)

My fic LJ: http://lysandrafic.livejournal.com/

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes:  
> **I think this was originally posted in 2001.  
> **This started off as an improv -- I asked my chat pals for elements and  
> thought I'd write a quick little angsty piece of smut, but the story flew  
> out of control and I ditched half of the improv elements in the rewrite.  
> The ones that remained were from Luperkal (grape juice) and Lita Marquez (a  
> trail of fresh blood).  
> **I know we didn't see Mulder's bedroom until the 6th season and by then it  
> was piled with files and boxes. But then in "all things," his bathroom  
> seemed to be in his bedroom, didn't it? So I have decided that his bedroom  
> was functional and somewhere between this fic and "Dreamland" was when it  
> got all messy.  
> **Beta thanks -- Ambress, Leilia, Livia Balaban, Luperkal, Punk  
> Maneuverability, Sabine, Sarah Ellen Parsons, shannono, and Token all  
> pitched in with opinions here and there. I'm a bit stubborn, so any  
> mistakes or rough patches left over are purely my own.  
> ** P.S. I had a bitch of a time formatting this for AO3, so if you see any formatting  
> errors or typos, feel free to point them out. Thanks.  
> Email: Lysandra@socal.rr.com or Lysandra31@aol.com  
> My fic LJ: http://lysandrafic.livejournal.com/


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